Mason indicated a chair, slipped out of his raincoat, shook drops from the brim of his hat, and settled back in the big swivel chair behind the desk.
His visitor gravely took out a wallet. “I suppose, Mr. Mason,” he said, extracting two one-thousand-dollar bills, “that when I said I’d pay you two thousand dollars for taking this case, you hardly expected to see the color of my money so soon.”
He didn’t hand Mason the two one-thousand-dollar bills, but held them in his hand as though just ready to place them on the edge of Mason’s desk.
“What,” Mason asked, “is the case?”
“There isn’t any.”
Mason raised his eyebrows.
“I,” Peltham said, “am in trouble.”
“You are?”
“Yes.”
“Exactly what is it?”